The key issue to any matter, of course, is where to begin.

Initial observations almost always influence the course of an investigation, especially one where the investigator is less than intimately familiar with the client. The subtle emphasis which a client lays on the various goals they set can become important later on—the eyeblinks, coughs, and ticks that betray anxiety could point to sinister motives or dishonesty on the part of a new employer that could easily be far more critical. There is yet another thing that any good investigator of any principle or skill should watch for, however. It is often in the first interview that the true culprit of the crime can be found, for many with nefarious aims take seriously that old adage to keep their friends close, and their enemies closer.

Thus, as I strode up the cobblestone street toward the abode of one Alexander Pevensley, I took care to pay close attention to my surroundings. The street seemed utterly ordinary, perhaps even somewhat mundane for this part of the city. While Liarlee Lane had many proud buildings and solemn monuments to the riches of the people who lived within them, it was obvious that these were the members of the newer ranks of the nobility, rather than older branches of the upper classes. The monuments were just a shade too bold, likely masking a lack of self-confidence through over-compensation. The fences were more decorated and the faces of the buildings far newer than the mansions of more established lines of the peerage, and even the attitude of the various servants going about their daily chores betrayed a lack of consistent deference or attention to detail that would have been absent in a more respected, traditional household.

Another sign showed itself in the various concessions the builders had made in the construction of their magnificent dwelling places. Though the more established houses could just as easily install landing platforms for airships, electrical generation mills, and speech cables, the homes of the more traditional nobles tended to have difficulty implementing them without placing them in awkward or overly-obvious places. The more recent peers tended to blend the changes into their structures with far greater skill, integrating the new in with the old to create an entirely different style. As far as I could see, the homes of Liarlee Lane were entirely made up of such buildings, with every rotating gear and sparking lamp well-coordinated with buttresses and stained glass.

Lord Pevensley’s home was much the same. It was designed to present a narrow profile to the lane, rather than the broad faces that more traditional mansions turned to the world. Three stories tall, it had a dramatic, flaring roof that stood in sharp relief against the sky. The sloped, shingled surface was broken only twice, once by a great chimney on the very end of the northern wing. The western wing held the other aberration, a small tower with a landing platform at the very top where an airship could easily perch for a moment like a bird before moving on its way. That platform jutted out like the prow of some steamship over the front yard. In fact, the whole of the building in general seemed to have been designed with that image in mind, and a vivid imagination could easily frame the whole of the structure as a ship attempting to make its stubborn way through the dirt and stone.

As fantastic as the architect’s vision might have been in constructing such a unique edifice, the effect was somewhat spoiled by a somewhat large hole dug in the grounds back near the edge of the southern wing. Rather, it was a crater, blasted by some type of explosive that had obviously incorporated a flammable component. Blackened smudges extended up the nearby wall where the bomb had sent tongues of flame licking up that side of the building. The marks were fairly recent, as they were untouched by a rainstorm which had swept across the city two nights past; Patricia had obviously given me the information on the job the very day she had received word. Just as obviously, the reasons for the worry Lord Pevensley had expressed concerning his safety had not been inspired by mere paranoia after all.

Wondering at the damage the explosion had caused, I made my way to the front gate of the grounds. There, I found two retainers watching the entrance, both extremely alert. Each carried a rifle with the arming mechanism already wound, and their eyes were wary as I approached. One of them, a solidly built gentleman with a pair of overly long sideburns, challenged me. “May I ask your business here, sir?”

I nodded indifferently at the pair of them; the guards were likely attempting to redeem themselves from their failure to ferret out the threat of the explosives smuggled onto the property. “My name is Hector Kingsley. I was invited here to meet with Lord Pevensley. May I inquire if he is at home?”

The guards stiffened at the mention of their master, and the rifles they carried tilted a little toward me. I noticed, with a hint of apprehension, that their fingers began to stray close to the firing triggers. The man with the outrageous sideburns almost seemed to growl at me when next he spoke. “May I ask you to remain here, sir, while I inquire at the house about your appointment?”

Seeing no reason to antagonize the guard further, I simply inclined my head and waited. He turned his back and marched to the house, his rifle still at the ready. Inwardly, I wondered that he would leave his companion alone with me and give me the opportunity to fight my way past, but I supposed that such a dull wit would suppose a man without obvious weaponry to be unarmed and harmless. He likely only suspected me of an unwelcome or unexpected visit, and was using the opportunity to show his renewed diligence without putting himself at much risk of either harm or offense. Of course, a better-trained guard would have noticed at least one of the double handful of possible weapons I carried, not least the cane, but he was far too occupied putting on a show to think such things unaided.

The guard was dreadfully mistaken in more ways than one. I had, of course, already advised the gentleman of my intention to visit at the first opportunity that very morning, and although his reply had not had time to reach me, I had no doubt that I would get the chance to speak with the man. Polite society required as much, and the lord’s own self-interest would likely aid my cause. After all, no self-respecting member of the peerage would overlook the chance to send a child of the working class to do their bidding. At the very least, I would be able to present my services to the peer and hope that he would hire me to resolve his situation.

My patience was rewarded a short time later when the guard returned, accompanied by another of his fellows and a man I could only assume was Lord Pevensley himself. The man was not overly rotund, but few could deny that he was a portly fellow. He wore a fine frock coat of a deep forest green that swirled about him as he walked. A thick, bristling mustache dominated his face as if to make up for a lack of hair on his crown, though a hedge of white hair still sprouted along the edges of his bald pate.

Lord Pevensley had the harried expression of a man who worried about many things, not the least of which, I am sure, concerned the crater in his yard. His eyes darted about, taking in the scenery, catching every flutter and twitch of movement as he crossed the lawn. He descended from his distracted daze only long enough to give me a cursory study a few steps before he reached me, and his attention was just as quickly caught by a squirrel as it leaped from one branch to the next. When he spoke, his voice carried the brittle edge of a man two breaths from panic. “Kingsley, is it? Hector Kingsley?”

I made a polite bow, careful to keep my movements fluid and unobtrusive. The guards were already far too eager to demonstrate their ability with those rifles, and I had no desire to encourage their foolishness. “My lord, I was given the impression that I might be able to aid you with certain difficulties which have presented themselves…” I let my sentence trail off as I turned my eyes toward the still-fresh crater. A glance at the lord’s face left no doubt that the nobleman had caught my meaning.

“I’m curious as to how you were able to hear of my difficulties so quickly. It seems remarkable to me that you would have responded before I even made public my interest in a private investigator.” The man’s attention was focused now, his eyes fixated on me as I slowly straightened from my bow. I gave him a slight smile, barely daring to twist the corner of my mouth upwards. It was always hard to tell how much cheekiness a nobleman would allow from one of supposedly lesser station.

“Your situation reached my ears through a mutual acquaintance. Ms. Patricia Anderson?”

A moment of confusion clouded the man’s face before the guard at his shoulder leaned in and whispered. Then he brightened considerably. “Mustang! She remembers me, does she? Well done, well done indeed.” He immediately extended his hand, and I found my own engulfed in his quick, eager grasp. Lord Pevensley’s handshake was firm, sharp, and carried something of a seal of approval in its motion. “Any friend of the Mustang is a friend to me. Inside then, inside with the lot of us.” He glanced about again. Suddenly apprehensive in expression, he nodded a little to himself. “No sense in standing about, no, none at all.”

The interior of the lord’s mansion was much the same as the exterior; the fittings and furnishings of the house were well crafted and great attention had been given to their arrangement and detail. Eclectic bits of art were scattered about each room, with fine rugs and tapestries coating the marble floorstones and walls. Servants, busy about their daily tasks, scurried from room to room as Lord Pevensley led us all into a chamber set aside from the bustle of the household. The guard who had followed him from the house dismissed the other two, and I noted in passing that unlike them, the edges of his uniform were singed. He had obviously been present for the blast, and was likely to have been the reason Lord Pevensley was still among the living.

No sooner had I prepared myself to address my potential client when a commotion gave me reason to pause. A well-attired, officious looking woman threw back the doors and entered the room. It was obvious from her demeanor and mode of dress that I was looking at the mistress of the house; her fashionable skirts and fine parasol matched her confident posture and proud expression. Her lips twisted with displeasure at the sight of me, and she turned with almost regal grace to regard her husband. “Danforth, who is this?”

“A Mr. Hector Kingsley, come to aid us with our problems. Which is exactly what we need, yes, exactly.” The nobleman nodded as he finished the sentence, and the lady of the house rolled her eyes heavenward with a sigh. When her gaze settled on me again, she frowned at my apparently unsatisfactory clothing and appearance before gliding over to a nearby seat.

Either unaware or unconcerned by his wife’s disapproval, Lord Pevensley leaned forward, as if taking me into his confidence. “So, my good man, what may I rely upon you to do in this case? I had attempted to employ Ms. Mustang as a bodyguard, but she informed me that her skills were not well adapted to the task. Is such a role more suited to your purview?”

Lady Pevensley murmured something under her breath, which though low as it was to escape my hearing, nonetheless still carried her discomfort with the idea to my ears. I was happy to set her fears at rest, as a job of that sort would likely be as disagreeable to me as it was to her. “I am afraid not, my lord. My skills are rather more inclined to investigation and detection rather than direct combat. I would think that you would rather set your mind at ease as to the source of these apparent enemies than to consign yourself to endless attacks and attempts on your life; in any case, I see you have some proficient guards already.”

The guard who had remained in the room grunted with a kind of grudging acceptance at the compliment, and I gave him a respectful nod, which he returned. Lady Pevensley broke in before her husband could respond, her voice haughty and dismissive. “I shouldn’t think your skills necessary here then, Mr. Kingsley. It is perfectly obvious who has desired to take my husband’s life without any sort of supposed investigation into the matter.”

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“Is that so, my lady? Please, explain.” Her frown solidified at being so directly addressed by one she obviously viewed as little higher than a stable boy, and before she had drawn herself up enough to reply, Lord Pevensley answered for her.

“Ophelia seems to feel that my involvement in various political concerns and charitable organizations have engendered a level of resentment among my fellow peers. I don’t believe it. It’s a ridiculous assumption that a few minor contributions here and there could convince someone to try to kill me. Don’t believe it at all.”

In response, his wife’s lips thinned somewhat. It was clear from the glare she sent her husband that the Lady Pevensley had already gone over this argument with her esteemed spouse repeatedly to very little effect. “What Lord Pevensley does not realize is how much those contributions can disturb the equilibrium of our society. Encouraging one movement decreases the power and influence of the others, to the point where those jealous of his attention might grow violent. In particular, his involvement with the lower classes has caused some large stir among many that even I associate with.”

Before the lord could respond, I broke in quietly. “Good sir, dear madam, if I could ask a handful of particular favors, I might be able to resolve this mystery for you. With the greatest possible discretion, of course.”

Lord Pevensley nodded. A faint smile formed before he spoke. “Direct and to the point; just what I would have expected from a friend of Mustang. Well then, ask away, and I will do my best to accommodate you.”

I shook my head slightly at the reference to Patricia. I had hoped that my manners had not degraded to that point, and the prospect at gaining a similar reputation among possible employers did not seem beneficial in the least. “First, I need a list of people who have been particularly agitated as a result of recent activities.” I held up a hand as Lord Pevensley made as if to protest. “I would not suspect anyone without conclusive evidence, and knowing which individuals or groups might threaten you will only help me exonerate them if they are innocent. In any case, it is useful to have a starting point in situations such as these, and a list of this nature is as good a place as any.”

This explanation won a reluctant nod from my future client, and his acceptance told me that he was willing enough to work with me despite personal discomfort. “Second, I must ask you to restrain yourself to those activities that present the least amount of danger. The attempt on your life may have been the first time the assassin has tried their hand at assaulting you, but they might try again. It is best to keep you from harm’s way until we have a better idea of the threats you face.”

Again, Lord Pevensley nodded, though the mounting tension in his face told me that his discomfort at the situation was already straining at the limits I was imposing. His wife, in sharp contrast, looked as if she had achieved some great victory, and I began to suspect that she was involved. It was still a vague suspicion, and as such I set it aside to examine more thoroughly another time. Instead, I decided to move on immediately to my last request before Lord Pevensley had a chance to form protests to my line of action.

“Lastly, my lord, I would request a particularly urgent necessity.” His eyebrows rose in alarm, but I gave him a reassuring smile. “I will need to examine the site of the attack itself. I must insist on it, in fact.”

A short time later, I found myself in the gardens. Though I did not claim to be a connoisseur of horticulture, even to my uneducated eye they were a credit to the servants and designers that had created them. Flowers adorned the pathways on each side, with every strain and color of plant imaginable. Hedges formed a low wall beyond them, either to form a distinct border between them and the plainer grasses and trees that waited beyond or to ward off some form of vermin that would otherwise have feasted on the delicate plants.

The crater which maimed the beauty of the scene was remarkably small when viewed up close. What gave it an increase in its apparent size happened to be the charring from the blast itself. The grass, flowers, and even tree branches for six strides in any direction had been burned black, leading me to wonder how in the world the pudgy Lord Pevensley had managed to escape harm. I knelt to examine the charring. It had left a fairly consistent pattern of ash; even hours after the attack, there was still enough to pick up and rub between my fingers.

Lord Pevensley’s guard—the one whose uniform was still marked by the blast—had accompanied me from the house. I glanced up as I felt at the soot and grime. The consistency of the ash seemed a bit strange to me. “Pardon me, Mr…”

“Muire. Jacob Muire.” He did not hold out a hand to shake, and I merely settled for his decision to tolerate my presence rather than trying to achieve his respect. Such things would normally come in time with such men, or more likely, not at all.

“Mr. Muire, if you would answer a few questions for me about the incident itself.”

The man’s impassive expression barely twitched. He nodded once again. “Certainly, Mr. Kingsley.”

“When the explosion occurred, how far from the blast was Lord Pevensley?”

Muire hesitated for a moment before answering. “I believe he was a few strides back from where the crater is now.”

I nodded. “A few strides? Was anyone else with him besides yourself?”

The guard shook his head. “There was only the two of us. His Lordship had decided on a morning stroll before his rounds at the Center for Unestablished Children, and I was the one who elected to accompany him.”

“And I imagine that you were no closer to the blast than he was.” Muire nodded again and I stepped back from the hole in the ground, attempting to picture the scene as it must have appeared. I saw the client, casually strolling down the garden pathway, stopping here to examine one flower, pausing there to admire a tree. His quick stride must have contrasted sharply to the measured tread of the guard beside him, though surely he had not been as concerned about his welfare as he must now feel. Then, as he approached the spot, a blast from out of nowhere…

I frowned. “Did His Lordship pass by this spot frequently on his morning walks?”

Muire nodded. “Indeed, sir. I imagine that the assassin must have been familiar with his habit, as well as the normal processes of the house. The staff has not attended to this area of the garden recently.”

“You are quite correct I am sure.” I gestured to Muire. “If you could indulge me, where precisely did he stand when the blast occurred?” The guard moved into position. He stood, as I had suspected, directly on top of one of the paving stones for the walkway. “If you could move aside, Mr. Muire.”

The guard stepped away from the blackened stone, and I knelt beside the rock myself. Removing a small brush from one of the pockets of my coat, I began to whisk around the edges to clear it of the soot and debris that still obscured my view. Muire watched me in silence while I worked, his curiosity subdued by his apparent dedication to stoicism. He had still not spoken when I replaced the brush in my coat pocket, my task completed. There was a slight stir as I drew out a sturdy file, though I attributed that to the sight of what could have been a bladed instrument in his ever-watchful eyes.

I had a purpose far less belligerent and far more productive in mind, however. Worming the edge of the file under the paving stone, I used it as a makeshift lever to pry it free of its housing. The broad, flat stone came up far more easily than one would have expected, and underneath I found the reason for at least some of the mysteries surrounding the case.

It was a small device to have caused so much havoc. It consisted of a metal plate that looked quite similar to one half of a balance scale attached to a small switch. A tiny gearwork generator stood beside it, its Distillation-powered potential already wound down. The generator was attached to a wire on one side of the switch, while a wire ran out from the other side. It passed under the next paving stone in the direction of the crater.

I let the stone back down, once again covering the device completely. It was a clever-enough preparation for an assassin to make. The servants had neglected this particular part of the garden, and being unlikely to use the pathway in any case, would have little chance of detonating the explosives early. The instant that the intended target stepped on the stone, however, the trigger for the bomb would set off the blast and the target would either be incapacitated or removed from the picture entirely.

At the same time, the distance from the blast bothered me. If one was expert enough to set such a trap, why leave the trigger so far from the source of the explosion? Extending the wire could only have increased the chances that some accidental mishap would uncover the plot, and had obviously contributed to Pevensley’s survival. I once again picked up a pinch of the soot left by the blast and rubbed it between my fingers. Another possibility occurred to me. “Mr. Muire, may I ask what color flame the blast produced?”

The guard snorted, his stone-faced personality cracking for a moment. “You are an odd one, aren’t you Mr. Kingsley.” He gave me a crooked grin, which I returned. His smiled faded, however, as his eyes unfocused. “I remember that it wasn’t all the usual red and orange color. At least, not all the way through; a couple of bits around the edges might have looked like that, but not all of it.”

Muire took a deep breath, and I felt a spike of impatience prod me. Still, I restrained myself until he had continued with his narrative. “The most part of it was green and blue. I remember it as clear as day. It made a strange hissing sound just before it blew, too, as if it was a snake threatening us. Then there were the flames shooting straight upwards and all the heat…” Muire’s voice trailed off as he relived that moment.

“It must have been a terrible thing indeed, Mr. Muire.” His eyes came back into focus, and he stared hard at me as if to say that I had no right to hold his awe of the event lightly. His voice had slipped back into its ironclad monotone once more when next he spake.

“I took my eyes off it while I carried His Lordship to safety. I was fortunate the Lady had reminded me to wear my Wenderforth springboots. Otherwise I never would have survived the blast, and neither would have Lord Pevensley.”

“A fortunate thing indeed, then.” I nodded thoughtfully to myself. “Green and blue, you said? Tinged with normal fire along the sides?” Muire gave one final, affirmative grunt, as if he considered the matter completely dealt with at that answer.

“Interesting.” I turned back to the crater and marked how far away from the hole the singing extended. “It must have been Distillation-enhanced, then.”

“Your pardon, Mr. Kingsley?”

“The chemical explosives. They seem likely to have been a mixture of alcohol and old-fashioned lamp oil, enhanced by the Distillation. Otherwise, the explosion would have been far less impressive.” I shook my head. “Such improvised materials, combined with such a delicate fuse and trigger… it is a study in contradictions.”

“How so?” Muire’s professional concern was all that kept the question from a cold, formal monotone, but I decided to answer him in any case.

“The materials suggest an amateur, someone who has no access to the more potent explosives that would have done more damage. An expert would have known that the combination would produce more flame and heat, but would not likely have as much destructive potential as, say, gunpowder or blasting caps.”

I bent toward the stone again, motioning to the trigger it still concealed. “The trigger, however, was expertly crafted and designed. It suggests a man or woman who has studied the use of such things. Normally I would think it was created by an expert, perhaps a professional who had been hired to wreak some hostile party’s vengeance.”

My fingers brushed the trigger as I continued. “And yet, the blast was placed too far away, once again indicating a sloppy or amateurish attempt. It is quite curious.” I fell silent, letting the problem turn the gears of my mental acuity for a time. A picture of our would-be assassin was starting to form, one that I would not share with Mr. Muire until the time was right. The culprit would be educated and have access to a wealth of books where they might find the design for a trigger. At the same time, they would be constrained, whether by social position or by monetary concerns, from purchasing an effective explosive—thus the improvised fuel for their bomb. Lastly, they would be a novice with such weapons, for through their inexperience in positioning the bomb, Muire and Pevensley had survived.

I stood up, idly dusting off the knees of my trousers. Could it be an impoverished nobleman, perhaps? Or a more undignified member of the peerage who had a taste for resolving matters personally? The possibility remained that Lady Pevensley had conspired against her husband, but I had seen very little solid evidence of the fact, and felt reluctant to move against her on the basis of a vague supposition. A prominent businessman, one who considered himself wronged by Lord Pevensley’s actions, could also be the culprit, but as I had recently seen in my experience with Mr. Thorpe, many such managers of industry hired out such tasks to less educated, but more lethally experienced, men.

The memory of Mr. Thorpe’s attempt at persuasion reminded me of my appointment at the bank. Though the case was all but solved, I still had the duty to set the situation right. I turned again to Mr. Muire. “If you would be so kind as to provide me with a list of guests who have visited the estate in the past week, I would appreciate it. The bomber had to set the trap well in advance.”

“Of course sir. I will send it to your address.” I gave Mr. Muire a nod, and then I proceeded towards the entrance to the grounds. I did not, after all, want to keep my client waiting.